The Red Dot
by Moth Mouth
Summary: The Dam has been won in the name of an independent New Vegas, the Mojave is all the better for it. Unfortunately, the Courier finds peace to be boring as all hell. Maybe a drunken night in a dark room will fix things. And if not, maybe a guy in a vomit inducing suit will. Probably one shot, definitely BennyXF!Courier.


**AN: This was really just to get myself back into writing, a warm up of sorts. And for Fallout of course, considering it's been CONSUMING MY LIFE. I feel it has the potential to be fleshed out, but I seriously doubt it will be. So while reviews are appreciated, don't expect this to make much sense. Anyway, just enjoy a bit of F!CourierXBenny cause it's like my most screwed up pairing that I know is a bad idea. Also, I hate FF's line spacing Ugggggh. /**

A single red dot.

The only illumination in a completely black room. Day, night, it was impossible to tell. The preceding days had been a muddled haze of time, without a clock or the wear-with-all to check her Pip-Boy, she had been lost in a disorienting fog. A click of a spark, a hiss of a flame, and the end of her cigarette was brought into light. The single red dot shone at the end of her lip. She could make out the gray ashes hanging flaccidly as the red dot ate through the paper and tobacco, leaving a fragile trail of ash in it's wake. A single tap and it crumbled into her lap, out of the light of the flame and into the putrid blackness she sat alone in.

God it was depressing.

A year had passed since New Vegas had fortified it's streets, took up arms, called every favor from every faction in the Mojave, and taken it's freedom from both the hands of the New California Republic and the Legion. She had led the charge, yet fired only a handful of shots. General Lee Oliver, lackey of the NCR, was coerced out of a fight, although he was consequently thrown from the very Dam he fought so hard for control over when he made a fuss. Legate Lanius was out for blood when she burst through his camp, she and her band of misfits, and overpowered his Legion, his sword at the ready as she came waltzing to his tent. But he too was coaxed into retreat without so much as a swing at the silver tongued Courier, self proclaimed Leader of New Vegas. Victory was won with as little blood shed as possible. Those that remained true to either group hadn't dared go against their leaders' orders, nor had any the courage to fire upon the Courier. She was a truly fearsome sight that day. Dressed all in a black stealth suit ordained with a red star at the back of the neck and a mask to hide her face, a plasma cannon strapped to her back that was about the size of her torso.

A Nightkin's quivering outline, an attack hound and a mobile arsenal teetered in her shadow. Occasionally a sniper's shot would resonate and take out an enemy before they could even get to her, or a ghoul dressed as an old bandito would pick off a man at her back, her band of merry men being spread out all through the Dam.

When all was said and done, the Courier worked tirelessly for New Vegas' independence. She worked even harder to keep it that way. The Families of the Strip were kept strictly in line under her watchful eye. All customers were treated equally by every establishment, no cannibalism, and nothing stronger than alcohol could be served to patrons unless they were watered down enough not to get folks hooked. Securitrons were stationed in every town that would take them, including the streets of Freeside with the King's permission, and robberies were stamped out rather quickly. Of course, the Courier had implemented more non violent methods for every robot, but there were still a few missiles let loose that may have been unnecessary.

Any soldier who didn't wish to remain loyal to either the Legion or the NCR after their defeat was welcomed into New Vegas with open arms. And those who still wished to see action or keep the peace were invited to join the Courier's private troops, who would later occupy the abandoned NCR stations and Legion camps. They fought under the title of a somewhat confusing and sometimes mocked name; The Couriers.

Implying they delivered death to those that work to undo the actual Courier's work? Doesn't really matter, the group's physician Arcade had brought it up jokingly and it kind of stuck. It did bring a sense of order to the otherwise ragtag group of Mojave loyals, though. It certainly got the point across.

These boys belonged to the Courier.

Besides the Powder Gangers still raiding caravans stupid enough to wander out of the security measures, the Mojave wastes had become an almost tolerable place to live. Even the Great Khans had settled in exchange for discounts at Gomorrah and the Tops.

And that left the Courier with the one burning question she thought she'd never have to ask.

What now?

She'd retired to a suite at the Tops with this one question in mind. What to do, what to do, what to do. There was no one left to shoot, no people left to oppose her, she was the at the top and there was no one who could fathom trying to knock her off. Even the Freeside junkies she admittedly enjoyed thrashing had dwindled, and the ones that remained knew all too well not to try and rob the Head of Vegas. There was a short time she tried just to enjoy her new gained freedom and respect, but there were only so many hands of Caravan she could try and teach Arcade to play before that too become an utter bore. So here she sat, alone but for the glow of the single red dot. It would be more enjoyable if that red dot came from a sniper rifle trained on her mouth, alas, it was only the glow of an ember that released toxic smoke into her lungs. And dear God, it was depressing.

"Lonely at the Top, ain't it Pussycat."

A sickeningly familiar voice to her right made her flinch. She would recognize it even without the enraging nicknames he gave everyone and that smarmy way of speaking. She couldn't see him in the dark, but could form him in her mind without a moments waste. Standing with his hands in the pockets of that tacky suit, a cocky swagger even when perfectly still.

"Mhm, I see you've crawled out your hole finally." She took the cigarette from her lips and let it hang limply from between her fingers.

"And I see you've set up shop in /my/ room. Did'ya miss me that much, doll?"

Her eyes darted to what she assumed was the source of his voice. "Don't flatter yourself. I only came here cause you have a top shelf collection of booze."

Once more, she brought the lighter to life. She didn't try to seek him out with the fire's light, only holding it close to her chin. Let him see the cold look of death in her eyes, lined by dark circles that were made all the more prominent by the small source of light. The amber glow against her paled almond skin. The adamant bow of her lips as they set in a thin line, catching the trail of dried blood from her nose. The mess of ebony curls spilling over the right side of her face, unruly and matted.

She hadn't slept nor ate properly in days. It was beginning to take it's toll.

"...I would never bad mouth a dame, but I gotta' say. You look like Brahmin shit." The moment of silence before this was almost satisfying. He had gotten the message across, taken in every detail she wanted him to. She flipped the lighter closed and snuffed out the light. Only the red dot was left.

"Such a charmer. Yeah, it's been a rough couple of days." she huffed.

"You look Jet lagged... Never would have thought the Saint of the Mojave even touched the stuff."

This made her hard-bitten act falter, and she cursed herself for letting it falter long enough for the bastard to catch it. "I ain't a Saint, first and foremost. And secondly, I ain't a junkie, if that's what you're getting at. But a girl deserves a little escape after running off a whole buncha' guys with guns, don't she? That's all that is."

"Fine, fine. Not like I came to judge anyway." She tensed to a small degree when she heard his footsteps cross in front of her, then the soft creak of bed springs compressing. "I do have a reason for coming around these parts again, believe it or not. Sort of a burning curiosity. I was hoping you could settle something for me."

"You came back just to ask me a question. Somehow I don't believe that."

"Hey, you chased me half way across the Mojave and all you did was ask a bunch of questions. It's my turn. Common courtesy, you know." he said, a hint of a chuckle in his voice.

She paused, flicking another trail of ash from her smoke. The ember was dying now as the red dot encroached the butt of the cigarette.

She didn't owe him an answer, if anything he owed her that and then some. She had forgiven him for burying her in a shallow grave with a head full of buckshot, she had let him leave the Tops without so much as a black eye and run off to be captured, she had spared him from Caesar's wrath and even helped cover his escape, at great risk to her own life. All this, and she never laid a maleficent hand on him for the way he had wronged her. Only asked him his reasons for all he had done.

With a resigned sigh, she slid into her seat. He had been truthful. She owed him nothing else but to be truthful in return.

"Fine." she finally managed, twisting the short stick of tobacco between her fingers. "What do you want to know?"

"Why?"

The question caught her off guard, though some part of her was expecting it. They both knew what he was asking, even so, he clarified. "Why go so far out of your way to help me, I can't wrap my head around it, it's got me all balled up. I tried to kill you. Not only do you survive, you trek across the Mojave, you become a paper shaker for all the good in the world, and then you go and save my ass instead of kicking it when you do find me. Not so much as a slap, hell, I've had one night stands that treated me harsher than you. So, why? Why do all this? Is it to set me on edge, cause baby, I can hardly sleep, I keep thinking I'll wake up choking on the barrel of that iron strapped to your hip. Level with me. Why do all this?"

She brushed her upper lip to hide a smirk and a giggle. Not that it mattered much in the completely dark room. "You seem to think I wanted revenge."

"Didn't you?" he asked quietly. It was the softest tone she'd ever heard from him. He was honestly concerned. As much as it amused her, she felt strangely sympathetic. Why, she had no idea.

"No, no, I didn't... How's that saying go? 'He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves: One for his enemy and one for himself.' I wasn't too keen on being thrown back into a grave." Even in the darkness, she could sense how uncomfortable that statement made him. There was always an edge to him when she brought up what he'd done to her.

"I never intended to hurt you back. So you can rest easy, I won't touch a greasy hair on your head."

"That's just chili, good to know, but it still doesn't answer my question." he persisted.

Her eyes burned into him, where she knew he sat atop the bed. Pushy bastard.

"Hmph. I really don't have a clue what to tell you, sheik. I just wanted answers, and when I had them, I didn't see a reason to kill you."That was the truth, but she had a feeling he wouldn't take it. "...Fighting for the sake of fighting, or for some fucked up sense of satisfaction from revenge, it's just not in my nature. If I killed you, what else would I have?"

"Vegas and all the perks it comes with."

She puffed indignantly.

"I never wanted Vegas. I told you, I wanted answers. In seeking them, Vegas dropped in on my lap. It's a heavy burden, hell it's cutting off the circulation to my legs." she sighed. A final tap and the red dot slowly died, leaving the two with nothing but each others voices. "It might sound dumb, it might even be the most screwy thing I've ever said. But you're all I have."

"What in hell do you mean by that?" he asked incredulously. His tone of voice made her all the more uncomfortable with telling him this. It spilled from her nevertheless, quickly and without much of a chance for her to stop herself.

"Look, don't take this the wrong way. I mean, I hate your guts and if you died tomorrow by someone else's hand, I wouldn't be all too sorry." She stopped shortly to collect herself, and snap what remained of her cigarette in two. "But you, with all your flaws and all the awful things between us, you're all I know of my life before all this...Sure, you're the reason I can't remember anything else, and if I had one shred of my old life back, you'd never see the light of day again. For now, the last thing I remember is you. And honestly, you had enough honor to look me in the face, give me some parting words before you pulled the trigger, it certainly made an impression. I can respect that, in fact I appreciate it...I'll...I'll put it simply."

Her voice lowered. "...You're my past, Benny. I don't want to lose it."

Another minute or so of silence. Admitting all of this at once had made her light headed, or that may just been the effect of Jet finally kicking in instead of just bloodying her nose. His mute response just made it all the worse. What the hell was she thinking, telling him all this? She hadn't even told Boone or Raul or any of the men a hundred times closer to her. Lily knew of all this, but she was damn senile. Told the Courier to bake him a pie.

She hounded herself for letting all this out, letting him know he had an upper hand over her, letting him get that upper hand in the first place. She thought telling him would be a relief, but now she was more wound up than before.

A psycho, a lunatic, a crazy bimbo, she called herself these about a dozen within the two minute window before she heard the bed creak again. A few dull footsteps and a sudden burst of light from the florescence.

Benny had the civility to let her curse stupidly and rub her eyes before he spoke. "Quite an answer, Dolly. Hope you don't mind, but I had another question."

Once the stinging in her eyes had subsided, she looked up, only to feel sick again at the sight of the vertigo inducing stripes on his suit. Just as she had suspected, he was cool and calm as ever, that assertive yet laid back posture. That greased black hair. Hands disappearing into his pockets. Prick.

"Are you looking for a book? Ugh, God, that wasn't enough for you?" she groaned.

"Well, it was more than I was expecting. But I am still curious about something." He waited until the wore down Courier waved her hand for him to continue. He did so with a smirk. God damn that smirk. "What would you say if I asked for a second chance, in exchange for taking Vegas off your...legs, as it were."

"I'd say 'think fast'."

Upon this, she launched a silver blur at his head, which he caught with that usual chill mannerism. He looked a pale shade of confused at first, until he turned it over in his hand. A platinum poker chip. By the look on his face, it fit nicely in his palm. Like he'd just found a dismembered piece of himself and hooked it back into place. His dark eyes almost sparkled.

"Vegas." he breathed.

"Vegas." she repeated, rising to her feet. "Don't waste that second chance, Daddy-O. They're in short supply these days." She dragged the back of her sleeve under her nose forcefully enough to scratch the layer of blood off, striding rather weakly past him to the door. A final glance back at him. "Butt me."

Benny tucked away the chip in his pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes. Tapping it a few times, he bit into one and pulled it from the cluster of others, then offered her one. She readily accepted, leaning in close to him so their smokes were close enough to touch as she sparked the engraved lighter in between the two, lighting both ablaze. Only now, it wasn't a simple red dot illuminating her face. Though it was much the same, the way it reflected in her eyes turned the simple gentle coal into an inferno that threatened to engulf anything close to her. Benny would be the first to go, it seemed to say.

Unfazed, he stared back into the Courier's face, clasped his hands around hers, and cautiously pushed the lighter closed.

"Let's rattle, Pussycat."


End file.
